


Emergence

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Wednesday One-Shots [19]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Illness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being given custody of Draco after the war was not Harry’s idea of a good time, but he supposed he’d spoken up for him, now he was saddled with him. And at least Draco couldn’t cause that much trouble at the Burrow. Soon enough, though, Harry will be wishing for the kind of trouble he <i>thought</i> was going to come out of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> The newest of my Wednesday one-shots, based on an anonymous prompt that asked for Harry and the Weasleys to have custody of Draco, and eventually coaxing him into a fuller life. It should have four or five parts.

“And is it your opinion, Mr. Potter, that Mr. Malfoy should go to Azkaban?”  
  
Harry shuddered a little. His eyes went to Malfoy’s face. Malfoy stood absolutely blank in chains in front of the courtroom.   
  
Harry knew what was behind that look. Not only was Lucius in Azkaban for life, but Narcissa Malfoy had received two years. Harry blamed himself for that, a little. He hadn’t spoken up much at her trial, confident that she hadn’t committed many crimes and that she would receive a light sentence for saving his life in the Forbidden Forest.  
  
But they’d found some more prisoners in the cellars of Malfoy Manor who had testified, eloquently, to how Narcissa had tortured them under the guidance of Bellatrix and Voldemort. The fact that Harry thought she’d been coerced into it, much like her son, hadn’t been enough to change the judges’ minds.  
  
“Mr. Potter?”  
  
The only thing Narcissa had asked for, in a mutter to Harry as he stood at her side waiting for the Aurors in depressed silence, was for him to save her son from prison. Harry had thought at the time that he _couldn’t_ even if he wanted to, because the Wizengamot would sentence Draco to Azkaban the same way they would his parents.  
  
But now, studying the bored expressions on the faces around him, Harry thought perhaps he had a chance. There had been a lot of people here with an interest in seeing Lucius Malfoy go to Azkaban, and the testimony of the prisoners had tipped even those who might have been neutral on Narcissa. But the people Draco had tortured had been Death Eaters, none of them here as witnesses, and they seemed…  
  
The Wizengamot seemed like the sort who would ignore the son if the parents had been properly punished.  
  
“Mr. Potter.” The witch who spoke had some sharpness in her voice now, but she honestly sounded like she just wanted to finish and go home for the day, not like she was going to yell because he hesitated.  
  
Malfoy’s eyes met his, dead. Because he expected Harry to abandon him, more than anything else, Harry turned to the witch and shook his head.  
  
“I don’t want him to go to Azkaban,” he said. “He’s just a kid. Let him stay free.”  
  
The brightening of Malfoy’s eyes with disbelief was the most pleasing thing Harry had seen all day.  
  
*  
  
“Let him stay free.”  
  
Draco wanted to raise his hand and rub his eyes, but the chains kept his hands down. He blinked and stared at Potter, but the moment had already moved on and the Wizengamot was arguing with Potter in a yawning way.  
  
“Why let him stay free?” The man who spoke was a cousin of Pansy’s, one of Lucius’s political contacts who used to come to the Manor for holidays. Draco hated him in the same low, steady way most of his emotions burned at the moment. “Azkaban always has room for another, and his _family_ is there.”  
  
The man laughed at his own nasty joke, and a few more people tittered. Draco didn’t bother looking at them. _He_ was the one looking at Potter, whose jaw firmed and who shook his head as though the man wasn’t worth his time.  
  
“I think he should, that’s all. He’s a kid. He was tortured. He didn’t give me away when he had the chance to. I know he came after me during the Battle of Hogwarts, but even that was just—bollocks. Like a kid might do.”  
  
Draco knew he probably should have felt offended, but he didn’t. The more passionately Potter believed that, the more chance he stood of convincing the members of the Wizengamot.  
  
Of course, a second later, with a tremor in his stomach, Draco had to wonder what exactly _Potter_ hoped to get out of this. He wouldn’t do Draco a simple favor. And his indifference couldn’t be real, either, or he would have left the trial long before this. Draco hadn’t listened to stories from his father for nothing. He knew exactly how “Light” wizards tended to think of “Dark” ones.  
  
If he went to Azkaban, it would be horrible, but at least he would know what was coming. What would happen if he was released on Potter’s say-so? What kind of debt would he owe? What kind would he be expected to _pay_?  
  
Draco clenched his chattering teeth and didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the Wizengamot’s debate. As he had known they would, they accepted Potter’s arguments, for what little they were worth, and voted to release him. Draco gave a single shiver of gratitude.  
  
But then the Wizengamot started talking about who should keep a watch over him for the next few months, using the words “custody” and “Weasleys” in the same sentence, and Draco started shivering harder.  
  
The Weasleys _hated_ his family. Draco had grown up on vicious bedtime stories of the kind of tricks they would play on innocent Malfoys to try and get their own back, and what they’d done on the rare occasions that they were involved directly in the punishment of a Malfoy.  
  
And when the Wizengamot announced that he was to be released into what was technically Potter’s custody, that didn’t soothe Draco’s fears much. Because as anyone—even prisoners locked up and only able to listen to guards’ gossip—knew, Potter was _living with the Weasleys_.  
  
Draco closed his eyes as the Aurors came up to take him away and hoped that Azkaban wouldn’t prove to be the kinder fate.  
  
*  
  
“Malfoy? Did you know that you can’t use magic for a year?”  
  
Harry would have expected a stronger reaction to that part of Malfoy’s punishment. But instead, Malfoy had only stared at the Burrow with horrified, despairing eyes since they Apparated into the garden. Ron stood by Harry’s side, eying Malfoy with dislike that Harry knew had moderated since the end of the war. He still didn’t want Malfoy there, but he wasn’t going to curse him.  
  
Still, _Malfoy_ wouldn’t have known the dislike had moderated. Harry caught Ron’s glance and nodded at the Burrow. Ron blinked once, then shrugged and walked towards it. Hermione had already gone inside. Harry knew she would rather just stay away from Malfoy than confront him.  
  
Then again, Hermione had her own ghosts to deal with from the war. She’d already made one trip to Australia and hadn’t found her parents. She was getting ready to make another one.  
  
Malfoy stood there, even though he had warm clothes and no chains on him anymore, shivering. Harry stared hard at his face. Had Malfoy always been that thin? He didn’t think so. And Malfoy also hadn’t had so much pallor in his face. His lips looked like they’d been scribbled on with Muggle makeup.  
  
“Did you hear me?” Harry asked very softly.  
  
Malfoy shivered and didn’t answer, didn’t respond.  
  
Harry drew his wand and conjured a wooden bench, a crude little thing that he’d got a lot better at making since the Wizengamot trials had started. The Wizengamot had often left him waiting for hours in an attempt to get him to leave. Harry sat down on it and pulled Malfoy down after him when he didn’t appear to notice it.  
  
 _That_ got a reaction. Malfoy flinched and ducked and shielded his head with one arm. Harry swallowed, trying not to let pity paralyze him.  
  
“I promise no one’s going to hurt you,” he said.  
  
Malfoy lowered his arm and stared at him again. At least this time he looked a little more “present,” like he could listen.   
  
“The Weasleys,” he whispered. “Don’t think they’ve given up the notion of a feud against my family. And I know they lost a son. They’re grieving, and they’ll blame me for that.”  
  
Harry shook his head, at a loss. “Did someone tell you that? It’s not true. They don’t blame you for it. Or your father,” he had to add. George had spent a lot of time investigating whether Lucius Malfoy could possibly have killed Fred, but he’d come up with no evidence. In fact, during the trials all the testimony had suggested Lucius was at the other end of the castle at the time, or hadn’t even Apparated in.  
  
“I know they’ll want to hurt me because I’m alive and he’s dead.” Malfoy’s voice was so small that Harry had to bend down near him to make it out. Malfoy was staring at the winter-stripped trees and almost closing his eyes. “My father told me. My mother. What members of their family have done to ours in the past, when they got their hands on them.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth to say that was stupid and Ron would never do anything like that, but he ended up closing it without saying anything. Not because he thought the Malfoys were right, but because he didn’t know the right words.  
  
 _Damn it. I wish the Wizengamot hadn’t put me in charge of him._  
  
It was better than Malfoy going to Azkaban, sure, and maybe his mum would even count it as saving her son. But Harry didn’t know how to take care of people. He knew how to teach them and save them and maybe even lead them, if you went back to the DA. But other than that…  
  
“Look, Malfoy,” he said, “anyone who tries to hurt you is going to have to go through me first, okay? And that includes George and—and anyone else.” George and his near-insanity after losing Fred were the only possible culprits he could think of, but he doubted Malfoy would agree.  
  
Malfoy looked at him with haunted eyes that at least had more color than his face or his lips. “You don’t want me here.”  
  
“I wish things were easier,” said Harry with complete honesty. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t protect you.”  
  
Malfoy actually mouthed the words for a moment, as though struggling to find the sense of them. Harry watched him with worry scalding his insides as though he had swallowed a whole vat of boiling water. He didn’t know what else to say, what else to _do_. The Healers had apparently visited Malfoy and said he wasn’t sick, but he seemed so lost.  
  
“You’ll stop them if they try to hurt me,” Malfoy finally whispered, his voice thick and low.  
  
Harry nodded, encouraged by the way that Malfoy’s eyes had started to focus again. “Exactly. And it doesn’t matter who they are. Ministry Aurors or Weasleys. I’ll protect you.” At least that was something he _knew_ how to do.  
  
Malfoy still sat there for an absurdly long amount of time, especially considering how much he was shivering, before he finally inclined his head and said almost inaudibly, “Okay.”  
  
Harry reached out for him without thinking, and Malfoy flinched. Harry slowed his hand down and let it rest on the bench, and finally Malfoy took it and let Harry pull him to his feet.  
  
“Molly has a room ready for you,” said Harry gently. It was Fred and George’s room. Harry could understand why no Weasley would ever want to stay there again, but at least it meant Malfoy would have privacy. “Come on.”  
  
*  
  
Draco found the room small and cramped, but it had a bed with thick, deep blankets. They were warm as long as he ignored the shades of maroon and orange they came in.  
  
He nestled down and closed his eyes.  
  
He knew they would bring food to him. They wouldn’t want him eating in the kitchen any more than Draco would want to sit at the same table with them.  
  
If he could stay here, keep his door barricaded from the inside with one of the scarred and battered trunks sitting in a corner, and not speak to anyone, until they forgot about him and the tortures they probably wanted to inflict on him, then Draco thought it would be all right.  
  
The blankets stopped the shivering. Potter brought the food on a tray. The food was as thick as the blankets: porridges and soups and bread baked in a lumpy, uneven way that no Malfoy house-elf would have tolerated.  
  
Had the Ministry undone the complex spells binding the Malfoy house-elves to the Manor yet? It was an ancient art, and one reason that not many people transferred elves between families anymore. The bindings might not take when the elves found themselves in a new building, serving new masters, and more wizards than one had died when confronted with a recalcitrant house-elf.  
  
Draco shook his head. Sometimes his mind wandered in ways that confused him. It was natural to think about all the things that were gone now, and about his parents in Azkaban, but why should he care about the new masters that his house-elves might have?  
  
Meals came. Draco went out and used the loo when he had to, and only after listening to make absolutely sure there was no one else in the corridor. He dodged the questions that Potter tried to ask him, because he knew without asking that Potter would demand more than the rambling that was all Draco could give him.  
  
On the other hand, this was a routine of its own. Draco slept and ate and wondered and used the loo. That was existence. Probably more existence than his parents had right now. Draco knew prisoners in Azkaban were fed or they would die, but he didn’t know how often they got to sleep or use the loo. And his food had to be better than theirs.  
  
 _Not that I deserve that. If I’d been stronger, then I would have asked the Wizengamot to send me to Azkaban, too. I deserve to bear what my parents are enduring, and I ought to lie where they are._  
  
Those were broken and drifting thoughts, though, and after a time, Draco stopped having them. His mind slid and tumbled, and he knew there was heat. Lots of heat. Of course, he had blankets piled on top of him and porridge that clotted in his mouth when he tried to eat it sticking to his ribs. So Draco stopped eating it.  
  
So much heat. Roaring around him. Sometimes Draco thought he was in the middle of the Fiendfyre, too, and Potter had simply turned his back on him and decided not to rescue him.  
  
Sometimes Draco thought that would have been better.  
  
So, when someone tried to shake his shoulder and rouse him, Draco simply rolled over and burrowed further down into the heat. Potter had flown out and left him there. It wasn’t like he could change his mind now.  
  



	2. Chapter Two

“Draco!”  
  
Harry roughly shook Malfoy for the third time. When calling him by his last name hadn’t caused any reaction, he’d turned to the first one. Surely Malfoy would wake up if only to tell Harry off for calling him by something so informal when they weren’t _friends,_ as he would undoubtedly say.  
  
But Malfoy lay unmoving still, only sharp, shallow breaths escaping his lungs. His skin was so hot that Harry couldn’t touch his forehead or his hand, but had to grip his shoulder, which still had a robe over it.  
  
“Mate? What is it?”  
  
Harry didn’t turn around, afraid that Malfoy would die the minute he took his eyes off him. “Will you go and get your mum?” he asked grimly. “I think Malfoy has a fever, but I don’t know, and I don’t trust myself to take care of him.”  
  
“Right away,” Ron said, and Harry heard the clatter of his boots against the floor as he ran down the stairs.  
  
“What did you do to yourself now, Malfoy?” Harry asked quietly. He cast a Cooling Charm on the robes around Malfoy, all he dared do. He didn’t know much about fevers, but he’d read that it wasn’t a good idea for victims to get too cold or too hot, because it could hurt them. Or maybe it was that they had both chills and heat.  
  
Harry sighed. It was strange to wish that he’d done more reading on Healing magic during the war, but now, with Malfoy so red and trembling in front of him, he felt as though pity was strangling him. No one deserved this, and someone as young and vulnerable as Malfoy least of all.  
  
“Move out of the way, Harry dear,” said Molly’s voice behind him, lowered as though she didn’t want to wake Malfoy up. “Percy used to get fevers all the time, and Ginny when she was little. I’ll know.”  
  
Harry gladly moved around to the side so Molly could see Malfoy. He didn’t let go of Malfoy’s shoulder, though. He had promised Malfoy he would protect him, even if he couldn’t take care of him. Letting him go now felt like failing.  
  
Molly cast a few charms that Harry didn’t know, but which surrounded Malfoy with a swirling blue cocoon and then dissipated. Molly’s face was grim when she looked up from the bed. “He has a magic-induced fever. His own power is fueling it. In the old days, people who suffered from this kind of fever could end up as Squibs.”  
  
Harry winced. But he clung to Molly’s words as a source of hope. “But these aren’t the old days, right? You can do something for him?”  
  
“I can,” said Molly. Her face was drawn. “But the fever is so advanced, it might not work. If that doesn’t, then we’ll have to take him to St. Mungo’s.”  
  
Harry winced under the twin lashes of worry and guilt. He felt even more strongly that he’d failed Malfoy, because the Wizengamot had trusted Harry to look after him. And he didn’t know if there were St. Mungo’s Healers who would actually treat Malfoy, or if they would turn him away like they had some rumored Death Eaters and Slytherins right after the war.  
  
“We’ll get some good care for him, never fear,” said Molly gently, reading his mind as easily as if she was a Legilimens. “Let’s try the charms first. You can learn to cast them without much trouble, and they’ll be all the stronger coming from you.”  
  
She didn’t say why that was, but Harry thought he knew. Malfoy hadn’t done much to him personally that he couldn’t forgive. And he _had_ read that Healing magic was affected by the amount of compassion you had towards your patient, and how much you sincerely wanted them to recover. The Weasleys might or might not be able to muster that compassion, right now, after everything the Malfoys had done to them in the past.  
  
 _You’ll get better,_ Harry told Malfoy without words, clutching his hand and squeezing so hard that he hoped Malfoy could feel it even in his deepest slumber. _You have to._  
  
“Harry…”  
  
Harry looked up sharply. Molly hesitated. “What is it?” he asked. If there was worse news than Malfoy possibly waking up a Squib, he didn’t know what it could be.  
  
 _Unless it’s that he could die._  
  
But Harry tightened his hold on Malfoy and swore that he wouldn’t let that happen, no matter what.  
  
“I think you ought to know that magic-induced fevers like this are a symptom of great despair,” Molly said quietly. “The magic brings them on because not even being a wizard is enough for the person to live for. My grandmother, who was a Healer, used to say that some of them actually wanted to become Squibs, because that would at least completely change their lives and make them into something new.”  
  
Harry understood the warning. He would have to heal not just Malfoy’s fever, but his perception that there was no reason worth surviving.  
  
“I’ll do my best,” he said, and held Molly’s gaze until she gave him a faint smile.  
  
“Good, dear,” she said, and then she stepped past him and started casting spells that wreathed around the still shape under the blankets and made it start to shiver and then stop shivering, and dissipated some curls of red that rose up and disappeared like steam.  
  
Harry hovered nearby, and asked about the spells, already learning what and how he could.  
  
 _I’m sorry that it came to this at all, Malfoy. But I promise that I’ll help you get better. I promise._  
  
*  
  
“Where am I?”  
  
Draco felt his cheeks burn a second later, because obviously he was in the same room he’d been in all along, the room that none of the Weasleys wanted to enter. But he had opened his eyes to see the pattern of the blanket looming above him, and that wasn’t a pleasant thing for any rational wizard.  
  
On the other hand, he had the disturbing feeling that he hadn’t been rational for a long, long time.  
  
Hasty footsteps crossed the floor, and then a hand yanked the blanket aside. Potter bent down and looked directly into his eyes. Draco recoiled a little in spite of himself. Potter was so _earnest_ , so _anxious_. It was just this side of disgusting.  
  
“Oh, sorry.” Potter finally seemed to realize that having his enormous nose in Draco’s face wasn’t helping, and he pulled back a little and gave Draco a sheepish smile. “But there’s some food Molly left for you. Why don’t you eat?” And he turned and lifted a wooden tray that held a steaming bowl of soup, three pieces of toast dripping with butter, a small salad, thicker bread soaked with what smelled like apple juice, and slices of cheese.  
  
Draco opened his mouth to refuse the food, but his stomach was loud enough to drown out any words he might have spoken anyway. He turned his head to the side, refusing to look, but didn’t make another protest as Potter settled the tray on his lap.  
  
“What happened?” he asked. Potter tapped his hand with something, and Draco opened it on reflex, swallowing against his fear of what felt like Potter’s wand. It was only when Potter folded his fingers around it again, which he certainly wouldn’t do with a wand, that Draco recognized it as the handle of a knife.  
  
“You had a fever fueled by your magic. Molly said that you’d despaired of being alive, and the fever was draining your power. You were suicidal. You might have woken up a Squib, if you didn’t just die.”  
  
Draco did have to whip around with his mouth open then. He knew what the signs looked when Potter was lying, and he _had_ to see them. “I would _not_ be that weak!”  
  
But Potter was only looking at him with that kind of disgusting earnestness again, which Draco knew, to his cost, only appeared in his expression when he was telling the truth. He reached out and squeezed Draco’s hand. “It’s not weakness. It’s—despair. I felt the same kind of thing during the Horcrux hunt, and when I realized that I’d have to die to defeat Voldemort. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”  
  
“ _Gryffindor_ , you mean.” Draco couldn’t stop shuddering, and not because he was cold, thank you very much, Potter, he thought in irritation as Potter solicitously tugged the blanket up around his shoulders. “My father—he would be ashamed. Disgusted.”  
  
“He’s not here. You are.” Potter sat back and looked at Draco until Draco, unnerved, picked up a spoon and started to eat. He was also unnerved by how much Potter’s approving grin affected him. And how delicious the soup was, so that once he started eating, he couldn’t stop.  
  
“I didn’t realize how much it affected you, being here without your parents. And being around me and the Weasleys, I suppose.” Potter grimaced and dragged his hand along his chin as if he was trying to rub off the stubble that had gathered there. “I just—wow, Malfoy. I’ll try to do better in the future.”  
  
Draco did have to stop eating, then, as he realized what Potter was saying. He was blaming himself, not Draco? Draco had expected to hear different pronouns in that last sentence.  
  
“Why would you blame yourself?”  
  
“Because I have custody of you. I thought it was all right if you just wanted to stay here and sleep all the time. It made things easier for me. But I should have realized something was wrong, of course. No healthy person would want to do that and nothing else. I didn’t watch you as closely as I should have. I didn’t _help_ you the way I should have. So from now on, I’m going to do better. I’ll help you any way you want.”  
  
Draco scraped his fork down his arm, but nothing changed other than Potter adopting a slight look of concern. He was still there, making that vow as if he meant it, and no matter how Draco ate or didn’t eat, spoke or didn’t speak, Potter just sat there.  
  
Draco finally burst out, “You _can’t_ mean that!”  
  
“Why not? I know I messed up, but I really do want to do better in the future. That’ll mean I have to watch you more, I know, and—”  
  
“You _can’t_ mean to help me! You’re a Light wizard! You’re a friend of the Weasleys! Do you know what Light wizards and Weasleys do when they catch a Dark wizard and a Malfoy?”  
  
“I don’t think I’m an anything wizard, really.” Potter’s brow was wrinkled with a calculation that was probably too difficult for the poor little dear, Draco thought, with a shudder that went into his bones. “Unless not using the Dark Arts makes you a Light wizard by definition. Does it?”  
  
“I would have known if you were a Dark wizard,” Draco said. “Everyone would. That’s not the kind of thing you can _hide_.”  
  
“Why?” Potter sounded fascinated. “Do you grow horns and scales or something? Because I didn’t see anything like that on you.”  
  
“It’s not—it’s not—” Draco found himself without words, and took a bite of bread in sheer agitation. It wasn’t fair that the apple butter on it soothed away some of his anxieties, so that he found himself leaning back with a long sigh.  
  
“You haven’t had to explain it to someone before,” Potter guessed at length, after watching Draco attentively, as though he expected him to start making sense in a minute. “You’ve always been around people who knew what it meant instinctively, and who knew how to classify themselves the right way.”  
  
“Right.” Draco frowned at Potter. He had the feeling that Potter had got one past him, somehow, but it _sounded_ right, and he was so hungry. “You’re not a Dark wizard. You should hate me by definition, because you’re a Light wizard, and that’s what they do.”  
  
“I prefer not to hate people by definition,” Potter said placidly, and pulled an apple out of his own pocket, and started eating. As though it was _perfectly normal_ for him to sit here doing that!  
  
“You don’t have to protect me,” Draco said, leaning forwards and trying to imagine the arguments that would convince Potter. “You don’t have to do _anything_ that you don’t want to. You should be able to stroll out of here and leave me behind and not give a damn about what I feel or what happens to me.”  
  
“But, you see, I’m terrified of the Wizengamot.”  
  
“What?” Draco knew he sounded ridiculous, like he didn’t understand what Potter was saying, and he _hated_ sounding that way. There was no way that Potter should know something he didn’t, and so no reason that Draco should have to sound stupid when he talked to him.  
  
“The Wizengamot gave me custody of you.” Potter leaned towards him with a serious face that twitched a little at the corners. “They’ll do something to me if you die. Maybe even make me an honorary member of the Wizengamot or something. And then _I_ would die, too, of boredom.”  
  
Draco stared at him, and knew his mouth was open. Potter leaned further back and took another crisp bite of his apple. “So I’m protecting myself by protecting you.” Potter nodded to his meal. “Now eat, so that you don’t die of starvation and I don’t die of Molly’s scolding that’s going to happen if she finds out that you’re not eating anything.”  
  
Draco went back to his meal. His motions were mechanical, but his stomach didn’t care. It was just happy to have something to fill it.  
  
He still knew Potter was wrong. He still knew his father was right. That was the way it had always been.  
  
Except that it didn’t _feel_ that way, anymore. Draco didn’t know what kind of feeling had replaced it.  
  
*  
  
“Look who can finally stumble downstairs!”  
  
Harry was right behind Malfoy as they came into the Burrow’s kitchen, and he felt Malfoy tense unhappily all over. Harry nodded. George was here, and he didn’t _think_ the first confrontation would go well, especially not when Malfoy had been sleeping in Fred and George’s old room.  
  
On the other hand, Harry had nearly killed Malfoy by ignoring him and staying away from him, and he wasn’t going to let the same thing happen when it came to this. He stepped in and told George, “Good morning.”  
  
George didn’t look away from Malfoy, even as he nodded an acknowledgment. “Isn’t it _interesting_ how some people live when they don’t deserve to, and others die?” he asked brightly.  
  
 _It’s like all the fire that used to go into his pranks has been turned into this sharp, nasty sarcasm,_ Harry thought sadly. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t heal the problem by simply trying to soothe George, the way his family had. Molly had tried it with tears and food and hugs, and those hadn’t worked. Harry would try something else.  
  
If it had worked with Malfoy, who was more prickly and difficult on a good day, there was a chance it would with George, too.  
  
“It’s very interesting,” Harry said, and gave a complex frown as he sat down in the seat across from George’s and waved Malfoy to the one next to him. “For example, do you know anyone else who would partially die from a Killing Curse and go to a reflection of King’s Cross Station?”  
  
George finally pulled his eyes away from Malfoy’s face and blinked at Harry. “What?”  
  
“Well, that’s where I went.” There was a bowl of apples in the middle of the table, and even though Harry didn’t really want one, considering he’d eaten a whole one upstairs, he picked up another. He could punctuate his points with loud bites and snaps, and that kept George from looking at Malfoy again. “And Dumbledore was there, and he told me that it was all happening in my head, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real.” Harry paused thoughtfully. “You know, I forgot to look and see what kind of socks he was wearing? I should have. It would tell me how real it was. Or maybe not. Since I knew about Dumbledore wanting socks, maybe it would just have drawn on my memories and not reality.”  
  
“What are you _talking_ about?” George asked, so honestly bewildered that Harry had to fight his smile.  
  
He leaned forwards and began to talk seriously about Dumbledore’s desire for socks that he’d told Harry about when Harry was looking into the Mirror of Erised. Once, he caught Malfoy’s eye, but Malfoy only stared at him, so Harry went on talking to George.   
  
_I can do this. If I can do it my own way._  
  
*  
  
Draco ate his own apple slowly. He had just eaten, but the Weasley mother stared at him when he came into the kitchen in a way that he knew meant he would get overwhelmed with food unless he already had something in his hand and mouth.  
  
 _What is Potter doing?_  
  
It took Draco a long time to figure it out, especially with Potter’s own chatter distracting him. But at last he did, and dropped his apple.  
  
 _He’s guarding me._  
  
“Porridge, dear?”  
  
It seemed he would get food the instant he let go of the apple, after all. Draco sat back with a resigned murmur, and put the apple down next to his plate.  
  
 _Potter,_ he thought, as he watched the absurd conversational backflips Potter was doing to keep the one-eared Weasley from going after him, _I don’t want to owe you debts. But you’re pretty good at collecting them._  
  



	3. Part Three

“Why does she keep trying to _feed_ me?” Draco complained, digging into the fruit salad that Molly had put in front of him a few minutes ago.  
  
Harry hid his smile behind his own bowl of fruit salad, which he was having mostly because Molly had handed it to him with a very expressive glance. He knew his mission was to make Draco feel like he wasn’t being singled out, so he would eat more instead of resisting out of stubbornness.  
  
Harry had to wonder if Molly knew her experiment had already failed.  
  
“Because you look like you need it,” said Harry easily, and Draco promptly gave him a stare of outrage. Harry gestured at the fruit salad again with his fork. “Eat it, or she’ll come along and—”  
  
“Decide I’m an ungrateful brat?”  
  
 _Careful, your past is showing._ But while Harry could say that kind of thing to George and not get hexed for it, he didn’t think he was there yet with Draco. He said only, “No. She’ll think you don’t like it, and start asking you what she can get for you instead.”  
  
He spoke with some sincerity, because precisely the same thing had happened to him when he was staying at the Burrow during the Death Eater trials. He had been sure he couldn’t eat a thing. Molly had been sure that he just didn’t like what was in front of him and she could tempt him.  
  
It had been a race against time and circumstance that, ultimately, Molly won. But only by making food that smelled unfairly good.  
  
Draco’s face took on a haunted expression. He toyed with his fork for a minute, and then he asked, not looking at Harry, “What do I say to make her leave me alone _and_ convince her that I like the food?”  
  
“You can’t.”  
  
“But if I finish this, she just brings _more_!”  
  
Harry sat back and smiled a little. They were outside the Burrow, Draco on a small Transfigured bench with a tray on his lap and a blanket around his shoulders. He’d fought both things. Again, Molly won.  
  
“Tell her you need time to digest it,” Harry said, even though his eyes lingered on Draco’s wan face and he had to admit _he_ would have been tempted to try and feed him up, too. “She understands that. She doesn’t want to make you throw up. She just wants to make sure that you have all you need.”  
  
Draco looked down at the fruit salad and spun his fork. Harry started eating again. He had to admit there was something about Molly’s cooking that made plain fruit piled together tempting, even without all the sauces and sweet toppings that Hogwarts’s house-elves used to add to it.  
  
“My father used to tell me stories,” Draco whispered suddenly. “About the things Weasleys did to Malfoys when they captured them.”  
  
Harry felt as if he was in a state of vibrating high alert, as if he’d seen the Snitch. This was the kind of thing he had been trying to get Draco to talk about for _days_. But on the other hand, showing too much interest would probably just make him fall silent again.  
  
Harry made his voice friendly but uninterested. “And what did he tell you they would do?”  
  
“Torture us. Cast Flaying Curses on us. Shove our heads under water in the bath until we drowned from sheer exhaustion. Starve us and then torment us with illusions of food that were really just disguising rocks, so we’d break our teeth when we bit into them.”  
  
The more Draco listed, the more Harry wanted to find Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban and slap him silly. What kind of ridiculous insanity _was_ that?   
  
And it wasn’t even that Lucius had been telling stories about the Weasleys, Harry realized suddenly. If Molly had been the kind of person to terrify Ron and Ginny with tales about what the Malfoys would do if _they_ captured _them_ , he would have been just as horrified.  
  
You might yell at kids or scare them to get them to behave, but you didn’t tell them this kind of thing and make them think the world was full of lurking horrors. It was the kind of terror that Tom Riddle had tried to spread through letting the basilisk out of the Chamber of Secrets.  
  
It was the kind of terror Aunt Petunia had tried to inspire in Harry when she used to yell at him that he was worthless, that he would never amount to anything, that no matter what happened he was destined to end up unemployed and a drunk and a freak.  
  
“But…”  
  
Harry shook away his own memories. Empathy with Draco or not, which he was glad to have, he wasn’t supposed to get so involved in them he lost track of what was going on. “But what?” he asked encouragingly, wondering if Draco had started to realize that he didn’t need to be cautious around the Weasleys all the time.  
  
“None of them,” said Draco with some feeling, and held up his fork to stare at the glistening grapes and slices of pineapple that clung to the end of the tines, “mentioned the mounds and mounds of food.”  
  
It felt good to laugh, and to see from Draco’s hesitant smile that it had been _meant_ to make him laugh, rather than Harry taking something serious the wrong way.  
  
It felt even better to watch the color creeping back into Draco’s cheeks, and to see the way he ate more slices of strawberry and started separating out what he didn’t want, and the way he faced down Molly when she cornered him and told her he needed time to digest.  
  
 _He needs to gain some confidence. He needs to come back to life. And we’re helping him do it._  
  
*  
  
Draco ducked his head as he saw Weasley coming towards him. Well, the original Weasley, not one of the multiple people with that name who seemed to be determined to make his life--  
  
 _I suppose they're not making it miserable. They could be, and they're not doing that. I'm grateful, I really am._  
  
But they were making his life _complicated._ And Draco wasn't really ready for that at the moment.  
  
Still, he would look stupid if he ran away. He was still sitting on the same bench in the middle of the garden that Potter had brought him to that morning to eat their breakfast, and it wasn't like Weasley was going to forget about him when he was looking _straight at him._ The best Draco could hope for was that Weasley would remember something he had to do that was more important and leave him alone.  
  
But Weasley plopped down on the bench and stared at him. Draco turned towards him and hoped his air of resignation was great enough to be insulting while not bad enough to provoke retaliation.  
  
"How are you doing, Malfoy?"  
  
Draco stared. He hadn't anticipated that beginning to the conversation even though he should have.  
  
It was becoming more and more obvious that these weren't the Weasleys of his father's stories. What they were, he wasn't sure he knew. But they weren't--that.   
  
"All right," Draco said, for lack of anything else to say.  
  
Weasley nodded and stared off into the distance for a moment. His air of desperate nonchalance began to get through to Draco, and he bit his lip to keep from laughing. Weasley was uncomfortable himself, was he? He probably didn't know what to do in the company of his hereditary enemy any more than Draco did.  
  
"Harry is going to make sure you can leave the Burrow," Weasley announced randomly.  
  
"But I thought the Wizengamot was strict about me not practicing magic and remaining in his custody," Draco said faintly. As much as he loathed being here, it was still better than Azkaban. He knew he would have died from his magic-draining fever, or at best woken up a Squib, in Azkaban.  
  
"Yeah, but they're not as strict on the rules about you being here, with us. You're here because Harry is living with us." Weasley ducked his head and rubbed at his ear. "If he leaves and moves somewhere else, then you can go with him. He's just trying to make sure that no one in the Wizengamot is watching that closely and won’t try to apply these rules so harshly as to mean that you can't move with him."  
  
Draco swallowed. A chance to be with Potter shouldn't sound like heaven, but it did. Never mind that the Weasleys weren't nearly as bad as he'd been led to believe; it would still be easier to recover if he was around one person alone.  
  
"Does he think he can really convince them?"  
  
"Dunno. That's where he is today. Has been the majority of the afternoon," Weasley added with a slight frown. "That might be a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe he has to see a lot of people, or maybe he's arguing and they're trying to turn him down flat. We'll see, I suppose."  
  
Then he turned and faced Draco, and held out his hand. Draco was so surprised that he took it before he knew what he was doing.  
  
"It hasn't always been a treat, having you here," said Weasley, and his jaw was set and his eyes steady, as if he was facing up to an unpleasant duty of the kind that made Father have to wear formal robes at the Ministry. "But it hasn't been horrible either."  
  
 _What a ringing endorsement._ Then again, for a Weasley, Draco reckoned, it _was._ He dipped his head in response and murmured something that he hoped would be taken the same way, since he couldn't find his own words and he didn't really want to simply echo Weasley's.  
  
Weasley gave him another searching glance, then asked, "Do you want to leave?"  
  
"I want some peace and privacy," Draco said, the first thing he thought of, and saw Weasley nod in what could be understanding. That gave him the courage to continue. "I--trust Potter, more than I did. I think I could at least live with him. But you've been more than decent, all of you."  
  
 _There._ It wasn't the most gracious thing he'd ever said, but on the other hand, he didn't think he'd given them anything to complain of, as far as Malfoy manners went.   
  
"Well. Good." Weasley didn't seem to know what to say any more than Draco did, and sat for a minute kicking his legs back and forth. Then he brightened. "Here comes Harry. Let's see what he has to say!"  
  
And he called across the distance, to Potter, while Draco blinked his eyes and tried to reconcile himself to the fact that he was having this conversation with Weasley, he really was, and it was going all right.  
  
As it turned out, he didn't need Weasley to tell him what Potter said. His voice came back, clear and true, and Draco knew he was smiling without having to look.  
  
"The Wizengamot said they don't care! As long as Draco lives with me, it can be the Burrow or Grimmauld Place or Godric's Hollow or a Muggle neighborhood!"  
  
Draco closed his eyes. In practice, he knew, he would probably still be spending a lot of time with the Weasleys, since Potter needed them to heal after the war, and Draco doubted Potter would leave him alone for very long--not because he didn't trust him, but to satisfy the sticklers in the Wizengamot who might be looking to indict them for any breaking of rules.  
  
But it _felt_ different. Having that little bit of extra freedom was going to let him breathe more easily.  
  
And it had been Potter who fought and won it for him.  
  
When Potter came up and dropped a hand on his shoulder, Draco turned and smiled up at him.  
  
Potter looked taken off-guard for all of one second, before he smiled back.  
  
Draco's heart ached in satisfaction. There was something about that smile, something that passed between them in the scant second before Weasley demanded to know exactly what the Wizengamot had said, that he thought might be worth fighting for, too.


	4. Part Four

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Harry snorted a little. Apparently, when Kreacher had a “real master” from the Black family to serve, he could do amazing things as far as cleaning up the house went.

There was what looked like new wallpaper everywhere in Grimmauld Place now, although given how wary house-elves were about changing anything, Harry thought it was more likely the old paper scrubbed to gleaming. The wood looked like it was made of satin, and there were rugs on the floor that had actual colors, red and black and grey. Harry thought it was a little somber, but at least it was somberly magnificent.

And Draco was sleeping better, and recovering faster.

Harry didn’t know if that was being in a house once owned by his ancestors, or being away from the Weasleys, or something else. What he _did_ know was that Draco came down to breakfast in the kitchen with a contented smile on his face.

“I didn’t have nightmares last night,” he told Harry.

Harry blinked and nodded as if he had known that Draco was having nightmares already. And resolved to keep a better eye on him in the future.

Draco ate everything Kreacher put in front of him, including porridge that he probably would have claimed was too thick if Molly made it, and smiled at him in a way that made Kreacher try to bang his head into the floor with bowing. And he asked about the news in the _Daily Prophet_ and looked thoughtful when Harry read to him about the poor performance of the Montrose Magpies.

“I was wondering if we could practice some Quidditch?” he asked. “That might be one of the only careers left open to me when this sentence is done. There are some teams that care more about your skill than your record.”

Harry nodded. He’d learned about that himself, when he was reading papers during the Death Eater trials because it was one of the few ways he could entertain himself during the endless waiting. The scandals that followed Quidditch players didn’t keep them from playing.

“Sure,” he said. “I have two brooms.”

“You do?” Draco stared at him. Maybe he’d thought Harry would say that he had to borrow some.

“All of the gifts people sent me after the war.” Harry looked in the other direction and rubbed the back of his neck. Compared to the situation Draco was in, this felt even more embarrassing than it would have otherwise. “There are brooms in them. One Firebolt, a lot of Nimbuses.”

“I’ll have one of the Nimbuses.”

“Don’t you want the Firebolt?”

“I want to see what my performance is really like, and I’ve never ridden a Firebolt. I wouldn’t know what was me and what was the broom.”

Harry smiled at him and stood up to go get the brooms, leaving Kreacher fussing over Draco. He knew nothing would happen to Draco while he was gone, since Kreacher would fling his body down as a bridge over a puddle before he would let Draco get wet.

And it let Harry have some time to settle his thoughts, which were that it was extraordinarily pleasant to hear Draco talk like that. He sounded wise and thoughtful, and not gushing, the way too many people since the war were.

He sounded like someone Harry would like to get to know.

*

Draco hesitated as he looked at the Quidditch pitch Potter had Apparated him to. It must have been a long distance from Grimmauld Place, to judge by the mountains in the distance, but there was no one else around.

“Where are we?”

Potter was striding ahead of Draco, carrying another Nimbus, but Draco saw the back of his neck still flush red. “Private Quidditch pitch,” he said. “In the magical area of Wales. It was—willed to me. By a woman who died shortly after the battle at Hogwarts.”

“You know,” said Draco, “I could help you come up with ways to use all these gifts, if you’re too mortified to do it yourself.”

Potter rubbed his forehead as if his scar pained him, and Draco felt a surge of panic before he remembered. “It’s just—it’s hard to admit I have them. I don’t want to offend people by giving their gifts away. And I want to think about other things than using them. So they just sort of sit around until I use them anyway.” He gave Draco an unhappy glance.

Draco raised his eyebrows and stumbled a little as he stepped on a rough patch of ground. Potter’s hand was on his elbow in a second, supporting him. Draco pushed him back and glared. “I was feverish. I didn’t die.”

“You could have.”

“And are you going to use that excuse to fuss over me as much as the—as Mrs. Weasley would have?”

“I don’t want to fuss over you,” said Potter, and had the gall to look startled at the accusation. “But I do think you’re not fully recovered yet, so I thought I would watch out for you.”

And he said it so simply that Draco couldn’t even feel offended. He sighed and walked over to a smooth patch of grass in the middle of the pitch, looking around for a moment. “I don’t see a shed or anything else that could contain balls and brooms.”

“The woman who willed it to me had the shed torn down years ago. She said it was the private place she came to fly and think, not to actually practice Quidditch.”

And now Potter sounded sad. Draco sighed again. He hadn’t meant to do _that_ , either. He turned around. “Every piece of this seems equally well-suited to playing.”

Potter nodded. He was looking more at the ground than Draco. Draco found himself frowning. That wouldn’t do.

“Then that means we can take off from everywhere,” Draco continued in the same calm, level voice. “And I could race you to the Keeper’s hoop from everywhere.”

Potter raised his head, but by that time Draco was already aloft—which felt wobbly and dangerous and _wonderful_ —and speeding towards the hoop. He laughed over his shoulder as he heard Potter cursing and trying to scramble onto his own Nimbus.

Granted, it wasn’t _as_ wonderful to know that Potter was probably worried about him falling off the broom rather than about losing the race. But Draco would take what blessings he could get. He leaned forwards over his Nimbus’s shaft and gave it its head.

*  
Watching Draco Malfoy crow over winning a Quidditch race against him was less annoying than Harry had expected. It was at least partially because he’d thought Draco was about to kill himself with that mad lift off the ground, and he hadn’t. Instead, he was drifting along above the grass even when Harry had landed, still recounting his victory.

“And then I saw the _look_ on your face when you glanced over your shoulder at me.” Draco winked and shook his head. “You never expected me to beat you, admit it.”

Harry snorted. There was pleasant and then there was letting Draco get a swelled head. “You would never have beaten me in a real Quidditch game.”

“I would _so_!”

“That was only a race. Not a real Quidditch game,” Harry said, mostly to see what Draco would say.

Draco gaped in silence for a second, his hands working up and down the shaft of the Nimbus. Then he snapped his head forwards and yelled, “I challenge you to a game, then!”

Harry flew down to gather up the box he’d brought along that contained the Bludgers and the Snitch. He thought about getting the Quaffle, too, but they’d both been Seekers at Hogwarts, and he thought they’d have enough to do dodging the Bludgers. He tossed the Snitch into the air and followed them with the sulky Bludgers.

One of them curved back and immediately tried to hit him. Harry struck it with the Beater’s bat he happened to have in his hand at that moment, but then tossed the bat back into the box and flew up again when he saw how intently Draco watched him. He seemed to think Harry would seize every unfair advantage he could.

_Not that I will._ Harry had even flown down to open the box instead of charming it open because he didn’t want to remind Draco that he couldn’t use magic. He circled back now and nodded to Draco. “First one to the Snitch wins.”

Draco took off immediately, turning his head back and forth, his eyes squinting. Harry looked at him more often than he did the Snitch, but he couldn’t help seeing the gleam of gold speeding towards the center of the pitch a moment later, either.

And neither could Draco. He shouted, something wordless, and took off straight towards it, his hand outstretched as if he could compel the Snitch to come to him by sheer force of will.

Straight into the path of the Bludger that drifted at him as if it had all the time in the world to get there, spinning slowly on its own axis.

While Draco chased the Snitch, Harry aimed himself straight at the Bludger, his wand already in his hand. Screw embarrassing Draco or making him feel inadequate if that meant Harry wouldn’t be able to _defend_ him. 

“ _Confringo_!”

*

Draco held his palm up. He could barely breathe. The Snitch was almost there, coming to him like a wild bird lured to be tame by the promise of cake. Was this actually going to happen? Was he going to charm the Snitch to him with no need of magic?

“ _Confringo_!”

Draco’s concentration shattered, and he ducked against his broom with reflexes born of long hours in the same house as Death Eaters. When he glanced fearfully over his shoulder, it was to see Potter framed by an ever-widening explosion of splinters.

Splinters that had once been part of a Bludger. Draco traced the path of those pieces back to the center of the explosion with his eyes, and swallowed. He’d also got good at estimating trajectories.

The Bludger was where his head would have been, if Potter hadn’t blown it up. That Draco hadn’t even sensed it…

That was a bad sign for a _Seeker_ , let alone a human being who wanted to survive a game of Quidditch.

Draco was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he could have died, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop it, and he’d had to rely on _Potter_ for protection just the way he did from the Wizengamot and the consequences of his own actions, when he felt something soft and small touch the center of his palm.

Draco jerked his head around, his eyes widening. He was holding the Snitch.

He _had_ charmed it to him without the aid of magic.

He turned around and held it out wordlessly for Potter to see. Potter had opened his mouth to say something, but he fell silent and blinked in obvious stunned astonishment. Then he looked at Draco.

Draco expected him to say something about how it hadn’t been a real game, and how Draco would never have beaten him in the middle of a real game. Draco was even prepared to agree with that. For one thing, he had no idea how the Snitch had come to be there at that precise moment.

And then Potter smiled at him instead, and Draco understood for the first time why so many students had invoked this man’s name when they were struggling against the Death Eaters at Hogwarts.

*

_He caught the Snitch. He really did._

And that made up for everything, Harry thought, Draco causing him worry when he flew like that, and almost dying, and even the other Bludger circling above their heads like a hawk, which he used a spell to imprison now. Draco had to be fully recovered, or he never could have done that. And now he’d beaten Harry’s record for shortest game of Quidditch and quickest capture time.

“You’re not angry.” Draco sounded as if he was wondering about that.

“No, of course not,” Harry said, a little startled that Draco would think that. He landed on the pitch and looked up at him. It took a long moment for Draco to follow him. “Why would I be?”

“Because I won.”

Harry said the first thing that came into his head, because it was the most honest. “Seeing the way you look now, it’s like I won, too.”

And then Draco came down, and landed, and sat on the broom looking at him. Harry looked back, not sure what else he could offer.

And then Draco reached out, hand still holding the Snitch, and opened it. Harry expected it to fly away, but it only sat there, wings quivering in and out, held by whatever wonder had made it fly to Draco in the first place.

Harry reached out, and closed his own hand over the fluttering Snitch and Draco’s warm fingers.


	5. Part Five

“I want to ask you something, Harry.”

It was hard for Harry to force his eyes open, but he managed at last. They were relaxing next to the Quidditch pitch after their fourth game there. Harry had won this time, but it hadn’t been easy. All the passion that Draco had once put into casting magic, he seemed to put into Quidditch now.

But he was hesitating, and biting his lip, and looking so lost that Harry’s interest was piqued. He rolled over—he was lying on the ground, near the base of the bench he’d conjured for Draco—and propped his chin in his hands. “What is it, Draco?”

“Do you think that we could—continue being friends even when I’m able to be free again?”

Draco’s eyes were fixed on the green hills around the Quidditch pitch, and Harry moved around in front of him so they could see each other. “Of course we can,” he said. “I know you so much better now. I think it would be a shame if we gave up on each other and went back to being enemies just because it used to be that way.”

“That’s not exactly what I wanted to ask,” Draco mumbled, but his hands were opening and closing on the bench. Harry waited, still, not sure whether he should say anything, and Draco finally found his voice again. “I want to know—if—you think we could deepen our friendship in the months before I’m free again.”

“Of course,” Harry repeated. If Draco hadn’t said exactly what he wanted to say, Harry hadn’t understood what he wanted to understand. “What is it? Is there something else you want to ask? You can ask it, I promise. I won’t be upset no matter what you say.”

“It’s not upsetting. It’s embarrassing.”

Harry tried to think about the provisions the Wizengamot had laid down, and could come up with nothing _that_ embarrassing. “Do you want to visit your parents?” he tried. “I don’t know if the Wizengamot would permit it right now, but I could ask.”

“No!” Even Harry recoiled from the force in that cry. Draco bowed his head and breathed harshly for a second, then raised his head and shook it at Harry. “I can’t. Not right now. Not when I’m still feeling so vulnerable and I know they’re having their dignity and their pride stripped from them. Maybe—later.”

“All right. Then think about what you want to ask, and ask me.” Harry shifted back a little so he was more comfortable on the grass, and waited.

Now that he thought of it, maybe Draco was working up to asking for his wand back. Harry would have to refuse, if only to keep him safe, but there could be ways around that, too.

Draco finally spoke, interrupting Harry in the middle of plans to sneak into Diagon Alley and get a second wand for himself. “I—want to know if you’re still dating Ginny Weasley.”

Harry gaped at him. Draco turned his head away, face scarlet and shiny and voice a muttering tumble of apologies. Harry shook his head and finally forced out, “No, it’s all right. It’s a fair question. I just didn’t think you were interested in it at all.”

“I don’t want to be. But I am.”

“Okay,” said Harry a little blankly, and once again put aside speculations about what in the world Draco wanted. “The answer is, no. I thought maybe we’d get back together when we went to Hogwarts. But now, I don’t think that’ll happen.”

“Because of me?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “If I really wanted to go back, or you did, then we would. But I just have so much to do. There’s these fortunes and gifts to put in order, and other trials they want me to testify at, and I want to sit my NEWT’s but I would rather study for them on my own instead of going back to the school, and _someone_ has to keep an eye on George. It’s not fair to ask Molly to do all of it. And I have to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life. I did want to be an Auror, but—now I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Too much fighting. Too much risk of death.” Harry smiled a little at Draco. “And I want to stay alive to see what happens next. It has to be different from what I’ve done so far, after all. No Voldemort.”

Draco flinched at the name, but Harry thought it was mostly out of habit. He only nodded as though pondering something, and then whispered, “Is there a place for me in that future?”

“Of course,” Harry said for the third time. He was a little puzzled by what was bothering Draco. Unless he thought… “I promise that no matter how much time I spend with the Weasleys, I’ll always have some free for you.”

Draco stared at his hands, and said nothing. Harry got up and sat on the bench beside him, taking one hand and squeezing it until Draco gave a little gasp and stared at him. “Come on. What’s bothering you?”

“I can show you, but I can’t speak about it very well.”

“All right.”

Harry thought Draco would stand up and lead him away from the Quidditch pitch to some place where he’d hidden something, or maybe take out a piece of parchment and write the secret down. He definitely didn’t expect it when Draco leaned forwards, shivering a little, and kissed him hard on the lips.

Draco was doing it all by himself for a little while; Harry sat there, too stunned to do anything else. But in the second before Draco made a choked noise and started to stand up, Harry reached out and placed his hands on Draco’s shoulders, pulling him firmly in.

Draco still bucked under his hands, still made the choked noise, but now it was more like a sound of relief. He sagged against Harry and went on kissing him. Harry did the same, easing Draco back on the bench, aware of all the warm planes under his hands, and Draco’s ribs, and the way that Draco jumped when Harry slid his hand up under his shirt.

“I—I didn’t know you would take to it so fast,” he gasped, and pulled back, shaking his head a little as he tried to focus on Harry.

Harry grinned and kissed him again, unrepentant. “I hadn’t really thought about it before,” he admitted, and pulled his hand back out from under Draco’s shirt when he saw how much it was making Draco flush. Maybe he wasn’t _quite_ ready for that yet. “But now I don’t know why not.”

“Really?”

Harry nodded and reached out to play with the edge of Draco’s hair. Draco went back to flushing and ducking his head, but Harry gently pulled on his hair until he raised his head and looked Harry in the face. 

“Yes,” Harry said softly. “I’m not dating Ginny. I feel more comfortable around you than most other people except the Weasleys and Hermione. You’ve changed so much. I was worried about being able to care for you, but I thought protecting you would be easier. And then I discovered that I could do both when I was helping you recover from that fever.”

Draco’s eyes were fastened on him, intent, devouring. Harry smiled and leaned in for a chaster kiss, feeling Draco’s hands hover as if he was going to frame Harry’s cheeks and chin, and then drop.

“And I’ve been impressed by the way you fly, and the way you’re trying so hard to accept living without magic, and living with _me_ ,” Harry whispered against his lips. “It can’t be easy, but you do it as if it is.”

“Wait,” said Draco, eyeing him. “How can you say that I make it look easy and that I’m trying hard at the same time?”

“Because I knew how hard it would have been for you before the war.” Harry splayed his fingers through Draco’s hair and sighed when Draco leaned forwards to rest against him. “So that’s part of it. But you’re also—I could _never_ do what you’re doing. I’d be cursing whoever had to take care of me, and struggling to escape.”

Draco was biting his lip about something, and Harry waited patiently until he opened his mouth again. “But I don’t think I could be as good as you, either, if I was in charge of you,” Draco said, like it was a shameful confession. “I’d hate you and try to punish you. You haven’t done that. Why?” He raised his head, obviously expecting _some_ kind of answer in Harry’s eyes. 

“Because the war cured me of smaller hatreds,” Harry said. “And because I didn’t expect your mum to go to prison; I was so sure you would have someone to take care of you. So—I’m going to do what I can to make it up to you.”

“If you’re going to talk about being my mum, Potter, you should choose some other metaphor,” said Draco, and wrinkled his nose.

Harry laughed, and leaned in to kiss him again, in a way that he sincerely hoped would drive all thoughts of his mother from his mind. Sure enough, when Draco opened his mouth again, he looked dazed and happy and not disgusted. “I will,” Harry breathed against his face. “I promise. And I’ll take care of you the way you deserve to be taken care of.”

He let his eyes drop to Draco’s groin, and then looked away again, smirking a little, when Draco squirmed as if he wanted to cover that up. Things like that could wait, though, since Draco had finally brought them to his attention and Harry was finally thinking about them.

_Anticipation will make them all the better when we do get there._

*

“I—I thought Harry would be here.”

Draco sat back in the huge armchair he’d more or less claimed as his own, in the downstairs sitting room, and shook his head a little. “He said he was going to the Burrow to help your mum with your brother.”

Weasley—the original one—folded his arms and gave Draco a steady stare. “It sounds bad when you put it like that. George isn’t a _thing_. Or an animal.”

“That’s the way Harry said it,” Draco said, which was true, and turned back to the book in his arms with a shiver. It was only a history of the Black family, nothing Dark about it, dry and boring as some of Binns’s lectures at Hogwarts. But Draco could all too easily envision Weasley getting upset, taking it away, and beating him over the head with it.

Weasley, however, only mumbled to himself and stomped around the room for a little while, kicking the walls. Then he spun around abruptly. “Do you know why Harry wants to stay here, Malfoy?” he asked.

Draco put a finger in his book as if marking his place was of the utmost importance, and shook his head. “No.” And he didn’t know why Weasley wanted to have a conversation, either. Draco had expected him to head home as soon as he heard Harry was there, at least if he really wanted to talk to Harry.

“He told me that it’s because he wants to get to know you better. And you should have some space and privacy.” Weasley dropped into another chair, a less comfortable one that Draco never sat in, and stared at him gloomily. “Why does he care so much about you?”

That, at least, Draco thought he could answer. “Because he has a strong sense of duty. And he likes me. I’ve changed since the war.”

“I know _that_.” Weasley ignored Draco’s gape and waved his hands around again. “But so has Harry! And I don’t know why. Do you?”

Draco thought he could explain it, but he wasn’t sure if Harry would want him to. It involved lots of things that he would probably rather say in his own words.

On the other hand, Weasley sat there, staring at him with pleading eyes. So Draco nodded and tried. “He really expected my mother to get out of being sentenced, you know. He thought she would be free to visit me and take care of me. He wasn’t _worried_ about me. But when he saw that he’d been wrong, he decided that he had to grow up and take care of me.”

Weasley jerked a little. “And he’s trying to take care of George, too.”

“Yes,” Draco admitted, thinking of what Harry had told him about encouraging Angelina Johnson to visit George, and joking with him, and dueling with him. Draco had tried not to feel jealous, and found it was easier than he’d expected. After all, he and Harry played Quidditch together, which Harry didn’t do with George. 

And Draco was _damn_ sure that there was nothing involving kisses going on between Harry and George. Harry just wasn’t that kind of person.

“So he’s grown up and he wants to take care of people,” Weasley muttered, staring at his hands. Then he looked up with his jaw working. “But it has to be more than that. Harry was always taking risks for other people before the war, too. I know he has to have changed more than that. Because this is different.”

Draco smiled a little. He had thought he would save this particular revelation for the whole Weasley family, but for all he knew, Harry had already told George and Molly, who seemed to be the ones more likely to accept it. “Well, there’s another difference.”

“What?”

“We’re also dating.”

Weasley sprang to his feet, and then didn’t seem to know what to do. Draco thought he would have drawn his wand at one point, but Draco couldn’t use magic, and he remembered that. There was also the fact that they’d gone too far for him to punch Draco like a Muggle. He scowled and settled for sitting down and insisting, “Repeat that.”

“Do you really _want_ me to?”

Weasley rolled his eyes and said, “You and Harry are dating.” He said it with a faint distaste in his voice, but nothing that made Draco feel inclined to murder him. Weasley had changed since the war, too, it seemed. He lounged back in the chair and shook his head at Draco. “What—why did you start?”

“I like him. He likes me. Isn’t that the way you and Granger started dating?”

“Merlin, don’t involve me and Hermione in your weird relationship.”

Draco couldn’t help laughing. _And I’ve changed, too, or I would have found that too insulting to do anything but sneer at._ “Okay, not exactly the same. But it’s pretty close, honestly. I wanted to, and Harry means a lot to me. And I mean a lot to him. I think.”

“I know you do.”

Draco looked up before he could stop himself, and then glanced away. It was one thing to think he saw that in Harry’s eyes, and another to hear one of Harry’s friends who was probably still a bit hostile to him say it.

“You do,” Weasley repeated more firmly. “It’s—strange to me, but I’m glad that Harry had someone now that Hermione and I have each other.”

“Now who’s making the strange comparisons?”

Weasley rolled his eyes, but said only, “Okay. That explains a lot of things I’ve been wondering about, especially why Harry decided to move out of the Burrow.”

Draco held his peace. He still didn’t know exactly what Harry would have wanted to say to Weasley. If he wanted to correct him on the point and tell him that Harry and Draco hadn’t been dating until they moved to Grimmauld Place, that was fine.

“And I suppose I don’t mind,” Weasley went on, talking to himself, much to Draco’s astonishment. Not just what he was saying, but that Weasley was relaxed enough with Draco to let his mouth and mind ramble. “Harry needs people. Not just us. Dad and Percy are so busy in the Ministry, and I’m with Hermione, and Ginny’s getting ready to go back to Hogwarts in the autumn, and Mum’s so busy with George, and Bill and Charlie are never there.” He nodded firmly to Draco. “Of course you know what I’m going to do to you if you ever hurt Harry.”

“I’m more worried about what your mother would do.”

“She’d probably just give you a big, sad-eyed, broken-hearted lecture.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Draco dryly.

Weasley chuckled abruptly. “You’re all right, Malfoy,” he said, standing. And then he held out his hand.

Draco blinked at it long enough that he knew there was the possibility of Weasley being offended, but he was honestly stunned by the offer. Then he lurched up from his chair and clasped Weasley’s wrist.

“This is a nice sight to come home to,” said Harry’s voice.

*

Harry grinned as he noticed the way Draco and Ron were springing apart from each other. Ron rolled his eyes a second later and ambled over to Harry, watching him with a sharpness that made Harry blink.

Then he realized what was probably going on.

_Draco told him._

Harry smiled at Draco. It was nice to have someone else who knew, plus it said a lot about the way Draco felt that he _wanted_ someone with ginger hair and the last name Weasley to know.

Draco seemed to bask in the smile. Harry sighed a little. He was glad that Draco was comfortable with at least one Weasley. It would make it easier for him to look to people other than just Harry for socializing. Harry didn’t want him to become isolated this year and unable to deal with other people when his magic was restored and the custody over.

“Good,” said Harry, and turned to Ron. “George is feeling better. But your mum wants to talk to you about going to Diagon Alley with him on Sunday. I promised I’d tell you if I saw you.”

“Oh. Is she sure he’s ready for that?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said truthfully. “He was doing better today, when Angelina came to visit, but…” He had to shrug. George still mentioned Fred with a disturbing obsessiveness, and sometimes acted like he refused to believe his twin was dead. And sometimes he would draw his wand and point it into corners, even though he never said anything when he did. He would only sit there, trembling and clenching his fingers around his wand, and staring.

“Well. I’ll see when I get home, I s’pose.” Ron sighed and nodded to Draco. “And you’re to come for dinner Sunday night. Both of you.”

Draco choked a little, but Harry nodded to Ron. “Thanks. We’ll be happy to.” A glance at Draco showed that he didn’t have any real objections. So Harry walked Ron to the Floo and punched him on the shoulder as he was about to get through.

“Say thanks to your mum for inviting us. And…thanks for coming to deliver the invitation.”

Ron relaxed and grinned a little. “I didn’t believe it when Malfoy first told me, but I’m happy for you, mate.” He punched Harry back, and then stepped into the fire with his handful of Floo powder. Harry heard him calling “The Burrow!” as he went back into the sitting room where Draco was.

“I’m glad you told him,” he said quietly, shutting the door.

“Good,” said Draco. “Not everything. He seemed to think we’d been dating since we moved out of the Burrow, but I reckoned you could correct that misconception if you wanted to.”

“Yes.” Harry leaned forwards with his hands on the arms of Draco’s chair. “Have I told you lately how much I like you? How glad I am that you chose to kiss me?” He might have come up with the idea on his own in time, but he didn’t know that he would have had the courage to put it into effect, as silly as that seemed. He didn’t want to force Draco into anything, especially not while Draco was in his custody.

“You’ve told me,” said Draco in a soft voice, and reached out to hook his fingers in Harry’s robe collar, pulling him closer. “You could tell me again.”

Harry laughed and kissed him, letting his hands slide down from Draco’s shoulders to his chest. That was all that either of them really wanted to do for right now.

But there would be time. Even after the year ended and Draco left his custody, there would be time for them.

Harry was certain of that, now.

**The End.**


End file.
